


the body is a blade

by SadieFlood



Category: Copycat (1995)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 06:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16213547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadieFlood/pseuds/SadieFlood
Summary: Helen and MJ try to find a path forward, together and apart.





	the body is a blade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wonderluck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderluck/gifts).



_Fall 1995_

Helen doesn't stay at the hospital long enough to learn her nurse's name.

She intimidates an orderly into walking her to Inspector Monahan's room, but she only makes it as far as the door; she wants to say _thank you, I'm sorry, goodbye_ , but she has to be the last person MJ would want to see, a living reminder of the worst moment of her life.

There's a man by her bedside, anyway, holding her hand, speaking to her in a low tone.

Helen shouldn't intrude. After all, she's done enough harm.

So she summons every bit of courage she can muster and asks her new orderly friend if he wouldn't mind calling her a taxi and requesting a female driver.

When she arrives at her apartment, the place has already been scrubbed of any sign of the violence that occurred that night, but they couldn't remove Andy's things, or alleviate the unrelenting silence left by his absence. She locks the door and turns on every television in the house, and the stereo for good measure. Then she gets to work.

On that first night, she packs up Andy's belongings, unplugs her computers from the Internet, and pours all of her hard liquor down the drain.

The following day, she places a newspaper ad for a new assistant.

She interviews five of the candidates by phone and three in person. She hires the first one whose eyes don't widen in recognition when she answers the door. Cynthia is fresh out of college and very athletic, much more interested in physical therapy than psychotherapy. She doesn't remind Helen of Andy at all.

The blank page confronts her every morning, but she's not ready to write about Peter Foley, though her publisher doesn't waste any time before he starts calling every other day to "check in."

About two weeks after she settles in, she gets a call from the police: Daryll Lee Cullum was killed in prison. Must have rubbed someone the wrong way. Yes, they're certain it's him, and no, it isn't cover for an escape. Nevertheless, she braces for a deluge of obscene and/or threatening phone calls from his "disciples," angry about her role in locking him up, or worse, from Cullum himself.

She's prepared to change her number, but the calls don't come.

Cynthia decides that the time has come for Helen to take a more active role in her own recovery. Helen almost fires her on the spot, but eventually they do start going on walks; short at first, then up to a mile every other day. Cynthia's philosophy is insultingly simplistic: "One foot in front of the other." She goes along with it, and the world starts opening up again, slowly, step by step.

And she doesn't say it out loud, but she does feel better. Stronger. Less afraid.

She still can't bring herself to check on MJ. She wouldn't even have to talk to her; she could just call the police, explain who she is, ask for an update. What would they do? Hang up on her?

She decides that if Inspector Monahan wants to talk to her, she's not hard to find.

The knock on the door still catches her off guard.

MJ looks paler than she'd remembered, and a bit disheveled, but relief surges through her just the same.

“I know we're not--I can't really talk to anyone else,” she says, lingering in the hallway.

Helen invites her in, sits beside her, listens to her talk about karma without rolling her eyes.

“I didn't sign up to be judge, jury, and executioner.”

“He would have killed me, you, a hundred other women,” she says. “That sounds like good karma to me.”

MJ shakes her head. “I know that, of course. But I'll still carry it with me for my whole life.”

“I have to tell you something."  When MJ looks at her expectantly, she considers changing the subject at the last second, but she's waited long enough. “I provoked him. I basically sent him an engraved invitation. If I'd known you would—but if you hadn't—I don't know what I thought would happen."

MJ doesn't say anything.

“If I hadn't done that,” she presses on, “you wouldn't have ended up on that rooftop, or in the hospital. So leave that burden to me. It's mine to carry.”

Still no answer.

She stands up, heads for the door in preparation for MJ's departure. “I'll understand if you don't want to see me again, but I'm glad you're doing better physically. And I hope this will help you, mentally.”

MJ doesn't move. “I mean, I know,” she says. “Do you think I blame you? Or myself? No. Fuck him. Taking a life is just a lot to deal with.” She pauses. “Unless you're a psychopath.”

“Feeling remorse.” Helen leans back against the closed door, a little lightheaded. “That's a good sign.”

She smiles. “Great. One less thing to worry about.”

"So," Helen says, as she puts on a pot of coffee. "I wanted to visit you in the hospital, but I wasn't sure you'd want to see me--"

"Of course I--"

"Well, someone was already there when I stopped by. It seemed like a private moment."

MJ looks confused. "A private moment?"

"Personal," she amends.  "Your boyfriend?"

"Oh. Nico," she says. "He's a good friend. Co-worker. He came by a lot. Drove me home, made me chicken soup like I had the flu or something."

"That's sweet." She doesn't say, _he didn't strike me as your type_.

"It was."  MJ hesitates. "But I would've been glad for the interruption, I think."

"All right." Somehow she's overfilled a coffee mug. Helen curses under her breath and sets about cleaning up her mess. "I'll remember that for next time."

"Yeah," MJ says. "Next time."

*

_Fall 1999_

The party isn't Helen's idea, but her publisher is persistent, and it's been years since she's had so much as a crank call or a threatening letter.

Steven has just enough tact to keep the thought to himself, but they both know a public appearance will serve two purposes: guaranteed publicity for the new book, and convincing the world at large that she's completely overcome the trauma outlined in her bestselling account of the Foley incident. In other words, she's fit to rejoin polite society.

Not that polite society ever had much use for her, even before Daryll Lee Cullum shattered her life and Peter Foley tried to finish the job.

She tells Steven _no_ seven and a half times before she says _yes_ , with the following conditions:

(1) Heavy security, at least three thoroughly vetted guards at every entrance. Metal detectors.

(2) A personal security detail, even more thoroughly vetted.

(3) Extremely limited invitations.

Steven is beside himself; he'd agree to any outlandish demand she could make, but she thinks even he would concur that these are reasonable requests, given what he's asking her to do.

She can't settle down for half an hour after she hangs up the phone, pacing around the apartment and triple-checking the locks on every door and window. She hasn't felt this rattled in a long time. Cynthia says, “I know you didn't ask, but I'm not sure about this. There's a lot of people in this city and most of them are mentally unbalanced.”

 _You're right_ , she thinks, settling back into her chair and picking up her red pen. _I didn't ask._

Cynthia pours her another cup of coffee and watches wordlessly as she viciously marks out entire paragraphs of the latest draft. “You don't need the money,” she finally says. “Why didn't you just tell them to fuck off again?”

She doesn't look up. “This book is going to be worth it.”

Cynthia squeezes her shoulder. “I hope so. For your sake.”

*

_Winter 1995_

After that first visit, MJ periodically stops by for a brief, awkward chat, usually without warning. Free therapy, Helen supposes, but she's happy to be of service, and she owes MJ her life. Plus it's a good distraction from the book she may never write--and not that she'd say it, but she's starting to like the company.

"This is going to sound weird, or mean, and I don't want you to take it that way." MJ pauses. "Well, never mind."

Helen peers at her over her glasses. "You're seriously going to leave me hanging?"

"I just keep wondering how it is that we both went through the same thing, but I feel like I'm a mess and you're... not."

"So you're saying it should be the other way around?" Helen keeps her tone arch; it's a joke, not an accusation.

"I've always had my life together," she says. "I mean, before, I just felt kind of bad for you--even when you were being an asshole--but I get it now. Public places are hard. Crowds. That's never been a problem for me."

“I've actually been going out now and then.”

MJ raises her eyebrows.

“Not very far, and never alone, of course. But outside. And I've completely stopped drinking.” She smiles. “Andy would approve.”

The memory hits her suddenly and hard, like the wind has been knocked out of her. MJ leans across the table and covers Helen's hand with her own.

After a moment, Helen pulls her hand away and clears her throat. “Cynthia and I have been going to the farmer's market on Wednesdays, but I gave her the rest of the day off.” She stands up. “Should we go?”

MJ wrinkles her nose. “A farmer's market? That's not really my scene.”

“I don't want to go alone,” she says, as if MJ has dragged the admission out of her. “Come on, don't make me beg.”

She laughs. “I'd pay to see that.”

They return, hours later, with a bag of plump tomatoes that Helen has promised to turn into a sauce. MJ collapses on the couch, winded. “I hate this,” she says.

“You're still healing,” Helen calls from the kitchen. “It doesn't happen overnight.”

"It was hard enough to get people to take me seriously before, and I worked hard for it.  Now I feel like I'm back at square one.  Of course they all have _thoughts_ about what they would have done differently."  She groans. "I just want to go back to work. I just want to get back to normal."

“That's never going to happen.”

MJ glances over. “Excuse me?”

She gestures at herself. “Exhibit A.”

“You just went to a farmer's market,” she says. “You couldn't have done that six months ago. Hell, a year.”

“Yes, but that's not back to normal. I used to be a real person, you know. If you knew me then, you wouldn't recognize me now. I doubt we'd be friends.”

“Are we friends?”

“You're sitting on my couch while I pulverize tomatoes for you. Yes, we're friends,” she says. “But I seriously doubt that the old me and the old you would ever be here now, like this.”

MJ considers it. “Is that a good thing?”

“It just is.” She shrugs. “Forget about normal. All you can do is keep going forward.” Helen returns to her sauce.

She leans her head back against the couch. “I just hope going forward means getting back to work.”

“And if it doesn't?”

“Then Foley wins,” she says, as if the answer is obvious. “And that's definitely not gonna work for me.”

Helen could argue, but she doesn't; she understands the sentiment, even if she disagrees with the premise.

The sauce turns out beautifully, spooned over pasta that's just on the edge of overcooked. MJ doesn't complain, but Helen makes a note of it for next time.

“This was nice,” Helen says as she walks MJ to the door. “Thanks for checking on me again.”

MJ stops short, and the sudden proximity makes Helen's breath catch in her throat. “All part of the job,” she says. “Even when I'm off the clock.” She looks up at Helen, but her expression is oddly guarded, almost like the first time they met.

“Maybe you should drop by again in a couple of days, just in case I've relapsed,” Helen manages to say.

She makes a show of thinking about it. “I'll have to check my schedule. Might disrupt my new routine of sleeping, eating, and freaking out.”

“Well, you know I'll be here.” She smiles. “Probably.”

*

_Fall 1999_

She backs out of the party three times. Each time, Cynthia is beside her for moral support.

When she agrees to it one final time in late November, Cynthia looks crestfallen. “Okay, but what if Y2K happens?”

“Don't be absurd.”

“I'm being practical, _you're_ being absurd,” Cynthia says. “My mom has a ton of canned goods. Why don't you spend New Year's Eve with us?”

“Because I'm going to a stupid, but important, party in my honor.”

“I give up,” she says. “Why do you keep saying it's important? You've written so many other books--”

Helen rummages through her desk drawer until she finds an unlabeled disk, which she hands to Cynthia. “Don't forget about your confidentiality agreement.”

She returns the disk a week later. “All right, I'll go with you. But when the world ends, get ready to hear 'I told you so.'”

*

_Summer 1996_

“I have a question,” MJ says, picking at her breakfast. She stopped in without calling first, as usual, about two hours earlier than Helen would have preferred. At least she'd been able to make some passable eggs and toast in her early-morning stupor. “I got some news from home.”

Helen waits.

“It's good news, actually. My sister-in-law finally had her baby last night. Two months late."

"Congratulations," she says, waiting for the question.

"I'm the only Monahan on the West Coast, so I've been elected to visit, but they're way down near L.A., and I just don't think I can handle an airplane. Or a bus, or a train. I'd be on edge the entire time.”

She sets down her fork.

"You want to get out for more than an hour or two? Maybe a longer than average car ride with someone you trust?”

The first three answers that come to her mind are as follows: _(1) No; (2) I can't; (3) I'm sorry I can't. _But she can't get any of those words out, so they sit in strained silence for what feels like an hour but might be three minutes, at most.__

“Never mind.” MJ pushes her plate away and gets up to leave. “I know it's a lot. I just thought it might help you, and I'd really rather not spend that many hours in a car with one of the guys, but I'm sure--”

Helen stands up, almost blocking her way. “Hold on, for God's sake. I didn't say no.”

“You didn't say yes,” MJ points out.

“I usually try to think before I speak.”

“Really, I don't want you to feel obligated. It was just a thought.”

The words still won't come.

After another long minute, MJ says, “Well? What's the verdict?”

 _No. I can't. I'm sorry I can't._ “Sure.”

Her surprised expression is probably a mirror of Helen's own.

 “I'll pay my own way,” she begins to say, but MJ's already on her tiptoes, kissing her tentatively, awkwardly, as if she's waiting for Helen to jerk away, to push her out the door and stop answering the phone forever.

She's not inclined to do any of those things, even if this is an aggressively anticlimactic resolution to the months they've spent dancing around the possibility over meals and late-night conversations. Instead, Helen rests her hands on MJ's waist and kisses her back, pouring herself into the effort. She hasn't been this close to another person by choice for a very long time, but luckily her skills in that regard haven't completely atrophied.

MJ pulls away, looking startled, as if she hadn't meant to make a move at all and she's not sure how she ended up in this position.

“I was talking about gas money,” Helen says, “but sure, that'll work.”

“I'll—I'll call you with the details.” Then she's gone.

Helen locks the door behind her.

She doesn't expect to hear anything further, about the trip or anything else. But MJ does call, just a few hours later, and no mention is made of their little moment, so Helen sets it aside.

On the day of the departure, she fills a small travel bag with a few necessities and tries to brush off the persistent layers of dust that accumulated on the outside of the bag during the years she spent not traveling, then packs sandwiches and a Thermos of coffee in a picnic basket long consigned to the depths of a hall closet.

The preparations mostly keep her mind off the fact that agreeing to this venture was a regrettable impulse that probably should have been suppressed.

She can feel Cynthia's skeptical glances as she writes out a list of tasks to be completed in her absence. “You'll page me if there's a problem,” Cynthia says. “Really, any time, day or night.”

“If there's a problem, I'll call the police, presuming I can make it to a phone.”

Cynthia writes her pager number on a slip of paper, just in case.

MJ's oldest brother is stationed at an Air Force base in the desert outside of Los Angeles. The drive is only six hours, and Helen's only a passenger. She can handle this. Probably.

The car is at least a decade old, a boxy sedan that kind of suits MJ. Helen keeps that thought to herself as MJ comes around to open the door for her.

“I vaguely remember disliking fast food and gas station coffee,” she says, holding out the picnic basket as if it's a peace offering. The gesture strikes her as ridiculous almost immediately; are they at war? Is she apologizing for something? She's the one who's doing MJ a favor.

“How do you live with yourself?” MJ shakes her head. “No fast food? No 7-11 sludge?” But she pulls out two sandwiches and the Thermos before they've even driven a mile.

They ride in a silence that's only slightly tense for an hour, then two, before MJ turns on the radio. Helen waits a few minutes before switching it to the FM band, finding a classical station, and turning the volume down low. She doesn't ask for permission or bother to explain, and MJ doesn't ask for an apology or an explanation.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I'm trying to limit my news intake these days.” she says.

“Not that.”

Oh. “Right. Well, the question is, do you want to talk about it?”

“Should I apologize?”

“For running off?” she says. “If you want. But don't apologize for the rest.”

“Okay, then. Sorry about running off. Not sorry about the rest.” MJ looks over cautiously, but she's smiling.

“Okay, then.”

Helen stays at the motel when MJ goes to visit her brother and the baby. She turns the television to something inane and drifts off to sleep.

She awakens to find MJ hovering over her, and her heart hammers and her breathing gets shallow, even as she chastises herself for overreacting. _It's MJ, for God's sake. You're safe._

"Are you okay?" MJ sits on the bed beside her. She pushes Helen's hair out of her face. "I wasn't thinking."

"It's not your fault. Just a reflex." Deep breaths. "How was the baby?"

"Healthy. Cute. Or ugly. I don't know, I can't tell." She shrugs. "I'm indifferent to babies. I know that's terrible to say, but--if you like babies, my niece is a fine specimen."

Helen laughs.

"I should let you get back to sleep." She starts to get up, but Helen grabs her hand.

"Are you tired?"

"No," MJ says, though Helen knows she must be exhausted from the drive, and the hospital, and pretending she's fine.

She bites her lip. "Do you want to--"

"Yes." She leans down and presses her lips against Helen's.

She doesn't kiss her back. "You have to stop doing that if you don't mean it."

"Well, in that case," MJ says, "I guess I'd better do it again."

The first time is urgent, bruising, frantic, a collision. Everything's wrong: her rumpled travel clothes, the thin, scratchy bedspread beneath her, the blue light of the television flashing in the dark, the sound of a man coughing in the next room. None of that matters, in the end.

Afterward, Helen takes her time, seeking out the scars her fingers had grazed, covering each with her mouth: the faded one on MJ's shoulder, the long one under her ribs, even the puffy yellow bruise on her hip.

"I'm guessing I'm not your first," MJ says, in a soft, satisfied tone that Helen supposes she should consider an accomplishment. 

"I'll try not to take that personally," she murmurs. "Why, am I yours?"

"You should take it personally, it's a compliment. And I went to an all-girls Catholic high school," she says.

Helen pauses her mission of discovery to say, "It wasn't quite that long ago for me."

"Oh?" MJ's eyes are still closed; she's pretending, unsuccessfully, not to be interested.

"The last person I dated was a reporter.  She covers your beat, actually."

MJ drops the ruse. "Wait, _Susan Schiffer_ is your ex-girlfriend? That vulture?"

"I was still in the hospital after Daryll Lee when she asked for an exclusive interview. I told her to go fuck herself. I guess she took that advice to heart, because I haven't heard from her since."

"Ouch. I'm sorry."

Helen finds a new scar behind her left knee. "I'm not."

"I'm not, either," she says.

*

_New Year's Eve 1999_

The publishing house has rented out an absurdly lavish venue for what she'd hoped would be a relatively small affair.

She supposes that she should have been more specific about the limited invitations. But at least her security requests have been met, as the place is swarming with thoroughly-vetted guards.

She moves through the crowd with surprising ease.

“Dr. Hudson?”

She turns around at the sound of a familiar voice.  The words desert her all at once, the traitors. She swallows as her manners slowly click back into place. “Inspector Monahan. Lovely to see you.”

“I read the book,” she says.

Her stomach drops. “How?  When?”

“Someone e-mailed me a copy a few weeks ago,” she says. “Anonymously. But don't worry. I didn't share it with anyone.”

“That's a serious security breach. This anonymous source sent it to you directly?” Of course. So much for that confidentiality agreement. “Excuse me, I have an assistant to fire.”

MJ reaches out, places a hand on her arm. “I loved it.”

She can feel her pulse throbbing in her neck, her temples, her wrists, her fingertips.  _George Washington.  John Adams._   “I'm glad to hear it,” Helen finally says, stepping back.  _James Madison._   “I'm contractually obligated to keep mingling, but we'll catch up later?”

“Sure,” MJ says, but she's already gone.

*

_Winter 1996_

They never exactly have The Conversation, but MJ starts staying overnight on occasion after the desert trip.  Every now and then turns into three times a week, and eventually she just stays.

It's been a long time since Helen felt like celebrating a holiday, but Cynthia acquires a absurdly large Christmas tree without asking first.

She's on the couch, staring up at this festive monstrosity, with MJ folded in her arms, and she thinks: _We did it. We survived, and this is it. We won._

Then MJ says, "Got a new case today," and she snaps back to reality.

She doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to hear the details, so she says, "I started the book."

She can feel MJ's entire body stiffen, and her tone is clipped when she says, "Foley?"

"Yes."

MJ sits up and makes a show of yawning. "I'm beat. Think I'll go on to bed." She pauses. "You coming?"

"In a bit."

MJ leaves the room without looking back.

So much for peace on Earth.

*

_New Year's Eve 1999_

Helen finds Cynthia knee-deep in a conversation about the patriarchy with an older male author she vaguely recognizes who's vigorously disputing the concept. “Excuse us,” she says to the author, taking Cynthia by the elbow. “I don't appreciate being ambushed. You violated your confidentiality agreement.”

“Sue me,” she says.

“I will.”

“Good luck with that. Like, so sorry I sent your ex the best and most personal thing you've ever written that you _dedicated to her_. Did you think she was never going to see it?”

Helen bristles. “She wasn't a fan of my work.”

Cynthia takes her by the shoulders and turns her around. MJ is alone at a table on the edge of the room, paging through one of the advance copies Helen had signed for guests earlier that day. “One foot in front of the other, just like we practiced,” Cynthia says.

 _I loved it_ , she'd said, and Helen had walked away.

Well, old habits die hard.

*

_Fall 1997_

“I have received medical treatment from a licensed professional,” MJ explains for the third time, with as much patience as she can muster.

The entire side of her jaw is purple and swollen, so that doesn't bring Helen much comfort.

She takes off her glasses and turns out the light. They're side by side in the dark, close but not touching, when Helen says: “I hate this. I hate sitting here all day, imagining the worst.”

“This wasn't the worst. Just a drunk with a mean right hook."

“Sure. Next time, who knows?” She thinks of Reuben, and wonders if MJ is thinking of him, too, in the silence that follows.

“Well, what about you? You think I don't worry about you all day?”

“I'm not risking my life," she says, but she can feel the ground shift beneath her, and she wishes she'd just kept her mouth shut for once.

"You know writing those books makes you a target, but you don't stop. I've never understood why you didn't change course after the Foley thing. Instead you wrote a goddamn book about him.”

Helen props herself up on her elbows. “Change course?”

MJ reaches over and turns the light back on. “I'm trying to make this city safer for people like you and me. You know that if I gave that up, I'd just sit around all day thinking about all the assholes who are still out there and all the women who could've lived another day if I'd done more.”

“I do know that," she concedes.

“But you still wish I'd quit.”

“Sure," Helen says. "I'll be delighted on that cold day in July."

“Meanwhile, you've never thought about putting something out in the world that's not a lovingly detailed description of some psychopath's deviant behavior?”

 _This won't end well_ , she thinks. _Stop talking, Helen_. “Maybe If you'd actually read more than--”

“I have,” she says. “I don't like it. I don't like thinking about you holing up for months with a murderer inside your head, particularly _that_ murderer, poring over his crime scenes--”

“Hey--”

“--and digging into his psyche, laying it all out there, like a roadmap for anyone who wants to follow in his footsteps. He wanted publicity, and you're giving it to him. So, yeah, why not change course, do something constructive?”

Helen puts her glasses back on. “Constructive.”

“Like a roadmap for potential victims instead of the men looking for new and exciting ways to victimize them.”

“Maybe you should write it,” she says. "You're always telling me that the guys still don't listen to you, they don't think you're--"

"So, what, I should prove them all right and just walk away?"

For once, Helen doesn't know what to say.

"I love you," MJ says, "but I'm not going to do that."

She turns out the light again. "Good night," she says.

MJ spends the next night at her old place, then she starts staying there every other night, and by the end of the year, it's every night.

* 

_New Year's Eve 1999_

MJ is tracing Helen's signature with her finger when Helen places a hand on her shoulder. “I can't believe you actually did it.”

“You were right. It was a good idea. Constructive.”

“Yeah, but I didn't expect you to include all of that personal stuff.” MJ closes the book. “There was a lot I didn't know.”

"I heard about your promotion," she says.  "Congratulations."

"Felt like it was time to get out of the field."

 _I'm sorry_ , she wants to say.

But MJ stands up, and she loses her train of thought.

The crowd starts counting down.

"You know, I've spent a lot of time thinking about what I should have said or done, and it's simple."  She waits for MJ to interrupt her, to politely wish her well and walk away.  She closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, MJ is still there.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I love you."

She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't move.

"Took the words out of my mouth."  MJ takes her hand. She stares at their entwined fingers as midnight approaches.

 "Should we--"

 "Yes," MJ says.

Helen slides her hand around the back of MJ's neck and starts to close the distance between them.

"Wait."

She starts to feel like the walls are closing in, but she waits.

MJ looks up at her. "Not if you don't mean it."

She laughs, feeling a little wild. "Well, in that case." The crowd erupts, and she kisses MJ to ring in a new year, another chance, in front of too many drunken partygoers and security guards, at the precise moment that they're all too busy to care.

The world doesn't end.

"We lived," MJ says.

She thinks, _We did it. We survived, and this is it. We won._

MJ leans in. "You want to get out of here?"

 The street outside is still clogged with revelers, almost impassable. Helen looks down at MJ, who's still holding onto her. "Where should we go?""

"Forward. Home." She hesitates. "I mean, if that's okay?"

 _One foot in front of the other_ , Helen reminds herself, and leads the way.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Japanese Breakfast song of the same name. 
> 
> (More on that [here](https://www.npr.org/sections/allsongs/2017/07/14/536439859/japanese-breakfast-soft-sounds-from-another-planet) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KmXnuD-JpOs).)


End file.
